


i can resist everything except temptation

by yonderdarling



Series: Doctor/Missy Oneshots [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Discussion of Abortion, Domestic, Episode Related, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff without Plot, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Pegging, Porn, Post-Episode: s09e12 Hell Bent, Rough Kissing, Sexual Tension, Smoking, Strap-Ons, Table Sex, Time War Angst, UST, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unresolved Sexual Tension, corsets, twissy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:30:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5580364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderdarling/pseuds/yonderdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshots, mostly Twissy themed. Corsets, baths, chatting, tanks and shagging. Not necessarily in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i can resist everything except temptation

**Author's Note:**

> The most important fact is that Missy wears corsets. The second most important fact is this means she has to take it off and put it on. For Ilana. This kind of grew out of a scene I was writing for a sequel to "Choice of Response."
> 
> If the order Missy puts her underwear on doesn't make sense, it's dimensionally transcendent.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy gets dressed in front of the Doctor; there's corsets and garters and it's all very distracting.

 

 

 

> _Always forgive your enemies - nothing annoys them so much. (Oscar Wilde)_
> 
>  
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

The Doctor turned another page of _The Importance of Being Earnest_ , glanced over the top at Missy doing up the clasps on her corset at the dressing table. When he'd first realised what she was wearing under all those layers of well-cut wool and linen, he'd assumed it was a true Victorian corset with long laces and whaleboning. Those needed two people to do up; Missy would never allow for something so impractical. This one was white, with lavender edging and titanium and mother-of-pearl clasps. It was also stab-, bullet-, and laser proof.

"Why do you wear that thing?" the Doctor asked. "It mushes your internal organs, makes your-" he gestured awkwardly, "your you know, look funny. They get all pressed up. It can't be healthy."

Missy finished clasping, stood and turned around to glare at him while she took her silky stockings off the end of the bed.

"I like it, and I don't tend to look to men who wore celery as an accessory for fashion advice."

"It was practical."

"It was celery and it was awful, Doctor. Anyway, you weren't complaining about my underwear last night."

"Well, I got to take it off you last night-" the Doctor started, and then waited for Missy to finish laughing. "I was concerned for your health. We might have two hearts but you only get one diaphragm."

"Are they suitably pressed up?" Missy asked, posing on the chair like a pin-up girl.

The Doctor put a heroic effort into pretending to read, then gave up and watched with considerable interest as Missy stood, rolled on her stockings and clipped them to her garter belt.

"Do you have any plans today?" he asked.

"Nothing evil, if that's what you're fishing for. I was going to have lunch on Benbrefadwan." Missy sat back down heavily, began to comb her hair. "Let me guess. You're gallivanting about with your latest human."

"I don't have a latest human," said the Doctor, flipping a page and chuckling at one of the lines. "I'm not planning on having another human for a while. I never plan on it."

"Well, come to lunch if you want. The Rani might show up, though it's doubtful."

"What is it, Time Renegades Anonymous, lunchtime meeting?"

"She contacted me. I think it was more to simply get a handle on the shape of the universe now." Missy squinted at the title of the Doctor's book. "Are you reading that to reaffirm that we used to both be men or something? I know you've read it a million times."

"I'm reading it because it's funny and you wouldn't let me into your other library, so it was this or Harry Potter."

"I hate Harry Potter."

"I know you do," said the Doctor, and turned another page. "God, is this Throwback Thursday or what?"

"We are currently in the infinite black void of space," Missy said, and pulled out a tin of bobby pins. "Is that a human saying?"

"I guess it runs close to - self inflicted reflection, usually with a self-aggrandising spin," the Doctor said thoughtfully. "Humans post photos of themselves on social media-" Missy's pale fingers curled through her hair, and he swallowed. "Online, comparing themselves in the past and present, sometimes as a point of pride."

Missy coiled up a tendril of hair. The Doctor artfully rearranged the blankets, ignored Missy raising her eyebrows at him in the mirror.

"You know," he said, putting the book in his lap. "Time Lords are back, you're…relatively, sane - "

"We're old again. You look a bit desiccated, if we're being honest."

"Excuse m-"

" _Relatively sane_. And we're shagging behind UNIT's back. Though honestly, that cat's probably been out of the bag since the 1970s."

"I was trying to be delicate," the Doctor said gruffly.

Missy smiled wickedly; the absence of her usual blood-red lipstick didn't diminish the effect. "It is a throwback," she said, arranging her fringe. "It's just the Time Lords being back I'm not in favour of."

The Doctor rolled out of bed, started collecting and putting his clothes back on.

"That's actually why I've been spending so much time on Earth lately," Missy said, avoiding his gaze in the mirror. "I've no doubt they've been scanning the universe for their wayward children, but Earth is literally covered in your psychic imprint. There's no point looking when numbers one through to twelve all spend their bank holidays there."

"You've been there a lot before, as well."

"True," Missy mused. "It acts as a decent bit of cover, I hope, with no effort on my part. Except just putting up with humanity. I'm worried our people will be more vengeful and shooty than xenophobic and snooty this time around."

"The Time Lords were a bit trigger happy last time I saw them. Sort of," the Doctor said, looking under the bed. "It was all a bit confusing when I ended up there."

"Your spare socks are in that drawer." Missy pointed.

"Thanks."

The Doctor sat on the bed, started putting on a pair of question-mark patterned socks. "You knew where Gallifrey was. I really thought you - they'd sent you. Especially after the Hybrid stuff. And what happened to my confession dial."

"I wouldn't," Missy said. "And I barely remember learning of the Hybrid at all, let alone the specifics. We were what, thirty-five? Do you _remember_ how many prophecies they had about us? Hell, there's probably more we don't know about."

There was still a lock of black hair curling down her neck. The Doctor stood and twirled it around his finger, took the pin Missy gave him. She leant her head forward obligingly as he slid the pin into place.

"And it's been a while," she said. "I've spent more collective time in jail than I ever have on Gallifrey." This time she did meet the Doctor's eyes in the mirror. "The war doesn't count. I was in prison for most of my second go-round there, anyway. It evens out."

She brushed the Doctor's hands off her hair, tilted her head to admire the effect. "And no, as per usual, I don't want to talk about it."

"They're not exactly pleased with me either."

"Are they ever, My Lord Genocide?"

"Shut up," the Doctor sat back down on the bed and retrieved _Earnest_. He started reading again while Missy dabbed rose water on her wrists and the hollow of her throat, began to brush on her makeup.

"I could write a book," she said. "A whole series. _1001 Places to be Imprisoned In Before You Die._ Alcatraz Prime. Esenitaliang Penitentiary. Ooh, the President of Earth's plane."

The Doctor pointedly did not look up.

"The Dead Zone. The Temporal Miniaturised Lotus Eater. Now that was an escape," said Missy.

"I thought the Time Lords stopped using the Dead Zone as a prison," the Doctor said finally.

"They made exceptions." Missy said airily, and uncapped her lipstick, running it over her bottom lip.

The Doctor stood again, rested his hand on her back. "I'm sorry they did that to you," he said.

She smacked her lips together, quickly twisted and drew a red line of lipstick down the Doctor's wrist.

"You-" the Doctor began, and shut up when she rolled her eyes and handed him a tissue. "There's the three-way crossing of the crystal moons of Canasar, that's just across the galaxy. The whole sky becomes a giant kaleidoscope for three hours."

"What about Canasar? That whole system smells weirdly of oregano."

"If you wanted, I have tickets. We could go together, make it a late lunch."

"I'd like that," said Missy.

She stood and straightened his rumpled collar, did up his top button, smoothed his lapels and rested her hands over his hearts. Wordlessly, the Doctor leant over and kissed her on the forehead. Missy smiled.

"Hurry up then," he said, stepping back and picking up her shirt. "It's a matinee." He threw it at her.

"And they say romance is dead," Missy said, catching it. "Honestly, I don't know why you're making such a fuss, Doctor. If I'm occasionally a little over-dressed, I make up for it by being always immensely over-educated."

 

 


	2. fig tree and vine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> don't ever ask me to write kidfic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously, don't ever ask. i have a lot of headcanons about gallifreyan pregnancy; note i didn't say babies. trigger warnings for anyone who's miscarried, had an abortion or unwanted pregnancy.

They make it back to her TARDIS eventually. The Doctor runs Missy a bath - a tiny bit higher than body temperature, just like the Sisterhood said. The Doctor helps Missy into the water, hands her a bar of soap, trails his fingers over her bare shoulder. When she leans into him, he remembers himself and sits outside the door, listening to her splash away and hum to herself.

"Are you reading?" she calls at one point, her voice echoing in the high vaulted ceiling of the bathroom. "You're reading. What are you reading? Is it something dreadfully maudlin?"

"It's Plath," he finally admits, closing it but using his finger to mark the yellowing, well-worn page. "The fig one."

"Ah, the fig one," she says, and water splashes on the floor. "You great big sap."

"It's from your library," the Doctor says.

"Shouldn't you be playing guitar or something?"

"I looked, I can't find any onboard. Did you use them in some evil plan to overthrow Rigel VII? They hate string music."

"Honestly? Probably. It all blurs together after a while, and these are interesting drugs they've put me on anyway."

Missy splish-splashes around a bit more; he can almost see her fingers running over the surface of the water. It must be getting cold by now. She keeps humming away, an old Ukranian drinking song bleeding into 2030s J-pop, that morphs into an ancient Gallifreyan lullaby and echoes eerily. Missy changes the tune there quick smart, picks up on the Scissor Sisters. Despite everything he's seen and done since then, the Doctor's skin still crawls.

"Are you done yet?"

Silence. Missy starts blowing bubbles. He turns back to the book, gets through a few more pages before hearing an authoritative splash. The sound of water droplets off her fingers hitting the surface of the water; he hears her wringing her hair out.

"Yeah," she says, and there's the sound of her wet hands dragging along the sides of the bath, squeaking. "I'm getting all pruney."

"Right. I'll help you out," the Doctor's knees pop as he gets out of the chair and leaves the book on the seat.

Missy's hair is stuck to her shoulders and face, her pale skin glistening in the bright bathroom lights. The Doctor holds out a fluffy towel, and Missy takes it, holds it out of the water awkwardly as he grabs under her arms. He hoists her up, taking most of her weight as she clambers out of the tub, water slopping all over the tiles. Missy clings to his shoulder.

"I feel terrible," she admits, wrapping the towel around her shoulders.

The Doctor holds her up around her waist, and she winces, resting one hand on his shoulder so she doesn't keel over.

"Sorry," he says. "You didn't want the wheelchair."

"No, it's not that," she says, and her free hand presses over her left heart. "Hang on a minute."

There's a matching pain in the opposite side of his chest that flares up as he watches her, and they both wait it out. Ten seconds; thirty seconds. A minute. Missy breathes out.

"I should have gotten the wheelchair," Missy says into the ringing silence, as the pain subsides.

"Too late," the Doctor says, and Missy leans on the edge of the bath as he quickly, roughly dries her shaking legs. "I don't know if you even have one onboard, and I'm not going and finding that damn bondage chair. Do you want to go to bed now?"

"Mm-hmm," she says, pressing one hand against her left heart and grimacing. "This is so undignified," she adds.

"It's about to get worse," the Doctor says.

With a heavy sigh, Missy wraps one arm around his shoulders. The Doctor lifts her up, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back.

"Any other day you'd love this," the Doctor says.

Missy presses her damp forehead against his shoulder. There's soap bubbles in the shell of her ear.

"Please don't tell me you're enjoying this."

"I am, a little bit," she says, and the Doctor walks carefully out of the room and down the corridor.

Thankfully her TARDIS has elected to shorten the walk to one of Missy's bedrooms, and he soon manages to settle her down on the covers, throws her loose cotton pyjamas across.

"Watching me get dressed too, is there no end to this depravity?" Missy asks, wiggling into her pyjama bottoms.

She pulls on the top, buttoning it up slowly, accidentally doing them skewed, her fingers clumsy. The Doctor ignores her comments, leaves the buttons, sits behind her on the firm mattress and starts to carefully dry her hair with another towel.

"Sit still," he says gruffly.

"Hey now. I'm not going to break. And you don't actually catch colds from going to bed with wet hair. It's something your mother just used to say so you wouldn't go paddling in the river after dinner."

"I just want you to get some sleep. You've been through a lot today."

"We, Doctor," says Missy, leaning against his chest, holding a hand over her heart again. She grimaces. "Do you feel it too, Mr Krabbs?"

"I don't - yes," the Doctor stays focussed on her hair, shifts so she's bracketed between his legs and can lean against him properly. "They gave you some interesting drugs."

"I can still feel the link back there."

"I know. I can too."

Missy tilts her head back so her damp hair brushes his face, smelling vaguely of soap. Her eyes flutter shut; Missy forces them open again.

"Time for all good Time Ladies to go to sleep," the Doctor says, pressing his mouth against her hair, breathing in.

He extricates himself from the bed, helps Missy lie down. The bed was already unmade, so he manages to rescue the plaid blankets and white linen sheets and tucks her in warmly.

"Don't make me ask," she mumbles. "I want you here."

"I am here." The Doctor pointedly sits on the chair beside the bed. He'd put it there that morning.

"Yes, but I'm _cold_ ," Missy peers at him from under the covers, blinks heavily.

With a heavy sigh, the Doctor removes his shoes, scoots them under the bed, tosses his jacket onto his seat. The mattress dips as he slips into bed beside Missy who plasters herself against his chest.

"Very cold," she says, and she is shaking.

The Doctor shifts, pulls the blankets up around their shoulders. Missy looks up at him.

"Does your heart still hurt?" she asks quietly.

He nods. Her small, cool hand comes up between them, presses against his chest in the right spot. The Doctor covers her fingers with his own. She reaches up to his face, swipes a thumb over his cheekbone and through the tear that leaked out when he wasn't focusing on holding them back. Holding his gaze, Missy licks the pad of her thumb, makes a face.

"I'm not sad," she says, and he sniffs. "You can be sad for both of us."

"Not at all?"

"I mostly just feel sick. And tired. I'm not sad."

"If you're going to be sick, tell me."

"Hm." Missy presses her face into his chest, holds onto the front of his shirt. Pain throbs on the right side of his sternum, but it's not Missy's doing. "I'm not sad," she says. "I'm angry we let it get to this point. I'm annoyed we had to go to the Sisterhood for help-"

"I thought you liked the Sisterhood."

"I _tolerate_ the Sisterhood. No one _likes_ the Sisterhood. Not even you," Missy taps her knuckles over his heart. "They were all too eager to ensure I didn't have it."

"We."

"Me, Doctor, let's agree on that at least. You said you didn't want any more kids."

The Doctor paused, ran one hand down to her hip. "Not like this. Not in exile. Not homeless."

"Not with me," Missy says, yawns against his chest. He strokes a hand along her hair. "I just don't. I'm not cut out to be a parent anymore. I lost it."

They lie there for a few minutes. Missy shifts, kicks at the blankets.

"I'm hot now," she declares, and rolls off the Doctor, pushing the blankets to the end of the bed with her feet.

The Doctor sits up with a groan, leans against the heavy oak of the headboard. Missy lolls across the mattress, looks over at him with a flushed face. The Doctor rests a hand against her forehead.

"Right, If you get any warmer I'm going to have to put you in the bath again. Or you can take your pants off. One of the two."

"It's just my body rejecting - everything it left behind," Missy says, sighs heavily, flops one arm out at him dramatically. "All the psychic mess, and the rest. Typical, the Sisterhood would want me to suffer a bit for this slight."

The Doctor takes the opportunity to check her pulse. It's steady, healthy. Missy takes the opportunity to hold his hand. Squeezes it rhythmically with her hot fingers; the Doctor tries not to count the pattern in fours.

"You're going to be fine," he says.

"Are you?"

Instead, the Doctor leans forward and kneels on the mattress, rolls Missy's pyjama pants up to her knees, the cotton rough under his fingers, Missy's skin still warm.

"Are you?" Missy repeats, when he settles back against the headboard. It's too hard against his shoulderblades, but he stays upright.

He breathes out. "We've been through worse."

"Are _you_ going to be alright," she says, aiming for peeved but yawning halfway through. "Doctor."

His heart hurts and he knows he's not imagining it, because Missy grimaces and presses her own hand to the left side of her chest again, her fingers fanning out, nails digging into fabric and skin.

"It's nearly over," she says, breathing out slowly. "That was a big one. I forgot how early the foetuses link psychically with their parents. I remember, my wife, she couldn't stop listening to-"

The Doctor keeps his hand over his right heart.

"Oh, Doctor. My Doctor. My dearest Doctor," Missy says, dragging herself up next to him, leans against his shoulder. She takes his hand, runs her thumb over his knuckles. "We never could have done it."

"I know."

"You were a wonderful father."

"I know."

Missy kisses his shoulder, then gasps suddenly and pushes both hands over her heart. She sucks in another breath, bites her lip. Her legs move against the sheets, kicking out at the pain. Her teeth worry at her lip and she pushes down, presses against the Doctor. A small groan of pain escapes her lips, and the Doctor wraps his arm around her shoulders, holds tight. Missy ends up curled in a ball, leaning against him, her face pressed into her knees. The Doctor rubs her back, murmurs things that don't make sense as she shakes.

Silence.

The Doctor feels nothing except sympathy pangs, a pit in his stomach. Eventually, swallowing hard, wincing once or twice, Missy sits up and sees his expression. She drops her hands neatly into her lap, folds her fingers together. Straightens her legs, rolls her shoulders. Breathes out.

"That's that, then," she says. "At least I think so."

The TARDIS creaks around them. Missy drops her head onto his shoulder, exhausted. 

"This was the right choice," the Doctor says finally.

"I know," she replies. "I'm cold again."

The Doctor pulls the blankets up around their legs, holds both of Missy's hands between his own. Kisses their intertwined fingers.

"If only UNIT could see us now. Any of your pets," Missy says sleepily. "You can name it. Her. If you want. She was a girl, they said. If it helps you. Humans do that."

"You didn't think of anything?"

"I didn't. I've not survived 5000 years by getting attached to things, Doctor, even if they happen to be growing inside me."

"Not - anything?"

"I had one daughter, that's enough," says Missy, eyes firmly shut. "You just love kids."

"I do."

"Hm."

"I thought of some," the Doctor said. "She'd be from your House, of course. I had some ideas. There are still some names we haven't attached to anyone living or dead or murderous or someone that one of us killed."

"That's nice, dear," Missy says into his shoulder, breath warm. "You're just giving me goals to work towards. Future aspirations."

"Don't you dare."

"Hmm."

The Doctor says the name aloud, listens to the syllables in the quiet of the bedroom. "Missy? What do you think?"

"Yes," says Missy.

"Yes as in good, or yes as in-" the Doctor stops, looks down.

Missy's drooling on his shoulder. He wraps one arm around her shoulders, moves her so she's lying down across the bed with her head on the pillow. She's still a bit flushed. The Doctor checks her temperature again - she's cooling down. He watches her sleeping for a moment.

"You'll be fine," he says finally.

The Doctor finds another book on the bedside table, wishing he did have a guitar. He gives up a few pages in and lies down next to Missy. She reaches out in her sleep, takes hold of his shirtfront - the right side - and he puts his hand over her own. He pulls the blankets up, switches the light out.

"'s nice," Missy says blearily. "I like the name."

"Go back to sleep."

Missy rolls over, leans against his chest again. The Doctor wraps an arm around her waist.

"Goodnight, Doctor," she says.

"Night, Missy."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The irony here is I love seeing the Doctor act as a parent. Missy, on the other hand... Feedback is always appreciated, thanks for reading!


	3. homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We're the best out of the whole rotten lot, and damn the rest of them. They never wanted us, they never wanted you or me, and they never wanted us together, and they don't want us together now." Post-finale Twissy. The Doctor is angry, and for once it's not Missy's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the wonderful (and granted, understandable) multiple opinions the Doctor has had of the Time Lords over the revival series, from "I choose to remember them fondly" (Ten), "the best dudes ever" (Eleven) to "fuck them with the rusty chainsaw of Rassillon" (Twelve). And honestly I just really did want to write porn.

The Doctor strides into the boardroom without knocking. The heavy oak doors, iron-barred, slam shut behind him. The various hangers-on Missy retained after her coup of the old junta stutter and look to her for an explanation. She doesn't give it to them, takes one look at the Doctor's face - like thunder - normal, for them. It's then she smells the artron energy and red grass on his skin - not normal. Not anymore.

Missy clicks her heels together, and well-trained, the officers and politicians and bankers stand to attention.

"Out," she snaps, and they remove themselves, taking the side door into the servants quarters.

Wise. It's faster that way.

The Doctor can't be mad at her - she hasn't _done_ anything yet, not this time, and the dark particle accelerator is still just a blueprint on her desk.

Well, it's an encoded blueprint in a safe under her desk, under a false floor. She's not an _idiot_.

Burning eyes, clenched fists, the Doctor finishes his approach in the now-silent, empty room. Missy pushes her vintage swivel chair (thank you, Thomas) back, crosses her legs, looks up at him. She tries to find the upper hand, or at least some kind of foothold. A toehold would do at this point.

"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" she asks, skin prickling as the Doctor looks down on her.

"Gallifrey," he says finally.

There's red dust on his boots, which could come from anywhere - she hopes he hasn't found her uranium mining racket in Dreamtime Australia - but the scent of the red grass on his skin is unmistakable, as familiar to her as breathing or surviving or the stars themselves.

"Gallifrey," she echoes, and watches his chest rise and fall.

Something is missing here - she's missing something, he's missing - forgotten - she can't put her finger on it. She could push this harder, find it out, but the tendon in the Doctor's jaw pulses and the Doctor, enraged, but not at her, is a show she rarely gets to watch.

Missy props an elbow on the old cedar table, rests her chin in her hand. "What?" she asks finally.

"I hate them," he manages to get out. "The scum."

Missy stands, leans against the table at that. Waits.

"All of them. The Time Lords," he adds. "Nothing's changed. The Outsiders and the Gallifreyans are still useless sheep, and the Time Lords haven't lifted a finger. It's all the same."

"Mm," says Missy. "The only thing less interesting than the Time Lords is watching paint dry, and at least then you can pick the colour."

His hands uncurl. One long finger traces her jawline, down to her jugular. The Doctor steps closer, crowds her against the table so its edge presses along her thighs. Missy holds his gaze despite the tight angle.

"It's why we left," she says. "Dull. Deadly dull. We were so bored."

"We were."

The Doctor looks away, takes her hand and studies her knuckles, drops that. One hand grasps her hip. She breathes in, smells the air and red grass and orange sunlight on his skin. Silver leaves. But that grass.

"What was it like?" she whispers. Wrong question. "Would you like me to remind you?"

One hand on each of her hips, fingers pressing into her lower back, the Doctor nods.

Missy sits up on the table, spreads her legs, and the Doctor stands between them. She places his hands deliberately on her thighs.

"We hated it," she says, and he rubs his thumbs in circles. "We were both going mad dealing with their shit. Their rules."

"Yes," says the Doctor, latching onto her ear, teasing the lobe between his teeth. He moves down her neck.

"We did anything to stop - going - crazy," Missy says, running her hands down the Doctor's front. She undoes the buttons on his waistcoat, holds onto his side. "Study at first. What morons. We thought if we were on top, we could change the rules. But it didn't work like that. So we moved onto experimenting. Planning. Plotting. Things we thought we'd never actually get to do. Figured out how to steal a TARDIS, which I guess we both used eventually. Thieving. Spying-"

"Fucking," the Doctor says into her throat, voice low and rough.

Missy swallows. His hand moves down her front too, unpicking the delicate buttons of her shirt, the bigger black ones of her coat.

"I remember," she says and clasps his wrist, nails digging into the flesh.

She sends him brief images, sense-memories; fingers twisting in red grass, dark hair curling over white linen, clumsy mouths and young hands.

"My Doctor, my dear Doctor," she whispers. "We knew even then we were so much more than them. Evil, they call me. Infamous, you. Renegades, the both of us. For daring to question their arbitrary rules and laws. At least we're using the power we were given. We're Time Lords. It's our right."

The Doctor palms her breast, nods. The fury from earlier - truly, what did they _do_ to him this time - still bubbles under his skin, but there's want there now too. The Time Lords, in life and death and life again, have always been a problem to deal with. This current problem is much more easily and pleasurably dealt with. Missy leans forward.

"Would you like to fuck me, Doctor?" she whispers, letting her lips brush his ear.

One hand trails down to the front of his trousers, his cock tenting the fabric. The Doctor nods, kisses her open-mouthed, biting and hungry. She sends him more images, more memories, feels him shiver against her. Feels the anger that's still there.

"Fuck me, because we're the best out of the whole rotten lot, and damn the rest of them. They never wanted us, they never wanted you or me, and they never wanted us together, and they don't want us together now-" he rucks up her skirt as she speaks, drags his hot palms up her stockinged legs.

"They did their best to split us up - I bet they even blamed me, for whatever happened to you, when I, my Lord Doctor, am completely innocent. In this case." Probably.

The Doctor pushes her back flat on the tabletop, runs his fingers along her damp, lacy underwear. He leans over, kisses her, biting at her bottom lip. They kiss for a few minutes, his cock pressing against her thigh, grinding against each other.

The Doctor breaks this kiss, steps back to catch his breath. Missy sits up, goes for his belt buckle, the metal cold under her fingers.

"We're the true Time Lords. You might insist on just seeing the universe, my dear, but true power is _ours_ , not theirs and we can do whatever we want, choose our own paths."

The Doctor runs his hands across her breasts again, rubbing her nipples and smiling as they harden. Missy undoes his trousers, reaches inside, feels the familiar weight and heat of his cock.

"Power. And freedom. This is true Time Lording, Doctor, doing and seeing whatever we want - taking and releasing power as we see fit. Sharing our knowledge. Sharing our talents that the Time Lords tried to crush out of us." She strokes him as she speaks, watches his pupils blow and feels his hearts speeding up.

It's all bullshit, of course, what she's saying, and they both know it, but she's so wet it's probably smearing the table and the Doctor is so hard as she runs her thumb over the head of his cock. He pants against her neck.

"The Time Lords are all about control," she says, removing her hand - the Doctor whines - and spreading her legs again. "That's why we're at our best when we lose it."

He slides one finger inside her underwear, teases at her folds.

"Fuck me, Doctor," she says again. "You're in charge here." She leans in, touches his cheek, his lips. "Don't make me beg. Make me-"

He shuts her up by biting her mouth, pushing her down onto the table. Breaking the kiss, he pulls her underwear off - she never liked that pair anyway - and slides two fingers into her cunt, thumb pressing against her clit. He works her into a frenzy in a few minutes, Missy swearing and sweating and grinding down on his fingers.

"This isn't - what I wanted," she manages to get out, and the Doctor laughs, low and dark.

The Doctor pulls her thighs apart again, finally, pulls her closer to the edge of the table. Missy raises her head to watch him. He slides into her with a grunt, the friction still there and wonderful despite how wet she is.

"Terror of the Time Lords and you've managed to get the Mistress flat on her back," Missy says, moving her hips, enjoying the sensation and the Doctor's hitching breath. "Now this, my dear, is power."

The Doctor presses down on her clit as he pulls out of her, teasing her entrance. Strokes her clit slowly as he fills her again. Missy feels the cold metal teeth of his zipper against her ass, a reminder of his earlier urgency and anger, and she wants that. She wraps her legs around his middle, digs a heel into the flesh of his lower back. The Doctor hisses, lets his head drop.

"Now Doctor," she says, and he takes her hips again and begins to move.

He pumps in and out of her, feeling like he's opening her wider and wider with each thrust. Missy trails a hand between them, presses at her clit - for a second she sees what the Doctor sees, purple fabric pooling around her waist, his ruddy hands bruising her hips, her red nails and white fingers tweaking at the delicate nub of flesh. Missy moans, and the Doctor sets a new, harder rhythm that leaves her gasping and whimpering.

The table creaks and groans under them, the Doctor grunts and mutters. She remembers the people she'd sent out earlier, knows they're waiting in the corridor nearby for their next orders, sees them waiting and listening, forced to hear this - she whimpers as the Doctor pushes into her again and again, pressure building in her abdomen. She rubs at her slick clit, rolls her nipple between her fingers, feels the Doctor's hot hands pulling at her hips.

"Come on Doctor," she finally manages to say. "Make me come. Make me scream. Show me who's in control here."

" _Mistress_ ," he says - right answer - and she digs her heel in.

The Doctor's hips snap forward, the table rocking, and his speed increases. Talking becomes impossible. Missy cries out as he fucks her, her mind blank and the universe empty but for the glorious being between her legs. Her thighs shake and her chest heaves, breasts bouncing and the Doctor grins, gasps as she clenches around him. He uses his grip on her to bring her to him now, not just thrusting into her but pulling her onto his cock, and Missy hears herself moaning, mewling, babbling in Gallifreyan and English and every language in between.

He fucks her even as she comes, shouting and seeing stars. Vision white, she shakes and spasms and only comes back to herself as the Doctor buries himself deep in her, comes with a strangled yell. He half falls, leans against the table, crowding her as they both pant. 

The air smells like sex and sweat, and Missy smiles up at him. Moves one shaking hand down to where their bodies are joined, feels the wet mess there.

"I miss it when it was just the two of us against the universe," she whispers, voice hoarse.

Not Saxon, or the Master race, but Koschei and Theta and the only thing that seemed to make sense was each other. The Doctor knows what she means, and nods.

"I miss the simplicity," the Doctor says finally, and gently pulls out of her, falls back onto her chair.

Missy feels strangely empty without him, tries to hide it. "Are you going to-" she sits up, winces, rearranges her skirt. No use. She's going to have to just change, looking at it with her own eyes. "What happened? What happened to you? What did they do?"

The Doctor does up his pants, doesn't look at her. Holds up a hand.

"It doesn't even matter," he says. "Not right now, anyway."

He thinks she was involved, and came anyway. Vaguely she wonders where Clara is, if she couldn't deal with a problem this big. Missy distracts herself, doing up her shirt. Maybe she died or something. The Doctor always gets extra pouty when one of his humans pops their clogs.

"Why did I want them back so much?" he asks finally.

"Time is a great healer. It also tends to induce amnesia. The parts of Gallifrey we want don't exist anymore," Missy says. "The fields burnt during the war, and they didn't grow back. The rivers were routed to help rebuild. The trees felled. Our families are dead. We weren't there together."

The Doctor then looks at his feet, up at her face, studies her expression. She gives up and kisses him, mindful of his swollen lips, and he brushes a thumb over her cheekbone. Her eyes close.

The Doctor breaks the kiss, stands abruptly. He clears his throat.

"I'm sure I'll be back in a few months to stop whatever you're up to here."

"It's a home for crippled, blind orphans of the disabled. My dear. Why must you always think the worst of me?"

The Doctor smiles, but his eyes are sad. He kisses her on the cheek -

_for a second she vividly remembers the library at her parent's house, Theta visiting over the winter break, the snow howling outside, the hot fire and ancient books, the creaking leather couch. Her own voice, reading some old myth aloud, and Theta leaning over, sporadically, always unpredictable, to kiss her cheek or the corner of her jaw or her ear and he'd always done that during that holiday, no reason why -_

The door slams shut, and the Doctor is gone. Missy waits, listens to his TARDIS dematerialising. She stands, looks towards the servants door. Decides they can wait until after she's had a bath.


	4. bless the mendreen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hey, you thinking about strippers too?" "No, I'm actually thinking about Missy, the Doctor and a strap-on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never used a strap-on, did some research, then decided to just go for it. Written on very little sleep to blow off steam after spending so long on Once Upon A Time In Nazi-Occupied France. Hope you enjoy!

**The Excuse**

"Doctor - Doctor - "

"Missy," the Doctor says, leaning against his TARDIS. "You sounded pretty overexcited on the phone, what's happening?"

"Remember when we went to visit the Mendreen on Halicoprus?" Missy's cheeks are flushed, her pupils blown. She swallows dryly. "Turns out, that, those flowers that makes people, you know, were in full bloom."

"The flowers that make beings, especially Gallifreyans, insatiably sexually aroused for about a day?"

Missy nods. The Doctor frowns.

"Why are you affected and not me?"

"I'm smaller than you. At my current estimates, you've got about twenty minutes before you spend the next twenty-four hours desperately needing to shag and be shagged."

The Doctor takes a moment to regret all his life choices. Takes another to make Missy squirm. He opens the TARDIS doors, steps to one side.

"I brought supplies," Missy says, hurrying past him. "Considering this body of yours is a prudish virgin."

"It's good to see you too," the Doctor says dryly, following her.

 

 

**Hour Nine, or thereabouts.**

Missy's fingers slide in and out of him, and she chuckles as he pushes back on her, gasping. He presses his face into the pillows, groans.

"If this is how you like my fingers, imagine how my cock is going to feel," Missy says, pushing a third finger inside him. "Doctor, imagine."

His own cock is rock hard and dripping already, but he grabs fistfuls of the blankets and manages to speak. "I am imagining it, and if you'd hurry up - "

"I've missed being able to do this," Missy continues, shifting. "I've missed this weight between my legs. I mean I can still open you up with my fingers and watch you squirm like this, yeah. But to be able to fuck you again? Make you - "

"Missy, are you just going to talk like this the entire time?"

Missy pauses, and the Doctor tenses. She turns her fingers, brushes them up against his prostate. The Doctor yelps.

"That's a yes," she says, and the Doctor turns his face back into the pillows. She slaps his upper thigh with her free hand. Slowly pulls her fingers out of him. "Turn over."

The Doctor rolls over, keeps his legs apart. Missy reaches over, runs her cool palm up his cock, rubs the head as the Doctor whines, twitches.

"It's good, isn't it," Missy says. She grabs the lube, hands it to him. "Come on, do me. Don't touch yourself."

The Doctor struggles up, unscrews the lid and pours a generous amount of lube onto his palm. Reaches over to the dildo strapped between Missy's legs and slicks the liquid up and down her length. It's purple, of course, strapped to her body with a black harness. Missy closes her eyes, sighs at the familiar sounds.

"I can almost remember how this feels," she whispers, tweaking at one of her nipples and sighing. "God, I can't wait to fuck you."

The Doctor takes the chance and takes his own cock, strokes it quickly, desperate for relief. Missy opens her eyes, quirks an eyebrow. Motions at him.

"Come on," she says. "You know how I like it. Assume the position. Elbows and knees." She keeps speaking as he arranges himself on all fours, playing with the toy between her legs, the lube making wet sounds between her fingers and the toy. "I love you being able to fuck me. You love my cunt, don't you? Soft and wet and hot all for you?"

He swallows dryly. His throat clicks.

"I love having a cunt - multiple orgasms are a fucking gift, you must try it sometime," Missy continues. "You've heard me, after all."

"You keep telling me," the Doctor says.

"I'm going to fuck you," Missy says, her voice low, and the mattress dips as she moves, kneeling behind him. "You're going to come on my cock, and I am going to enjoy this. I'm so wet right now, all for you spread out before me."

The Doctor grips the blankets again, lowers his head. "Well. This millennium, preferably," he says.

He expects a smack for that, but instead gets the blunt head of the dildo pressing against his asshole.

He swears as she pushes slowly into him, the strange stretch familiar and welcome, if edging on painful. Missy groans too, until she's fully inside, pressed against him, her front against his thighs.

"I remember how this should feel too," Missy says, gripping his hips. The Doctor makes himself relax, makes himself breathe out. "That tight heat, you clenched around my cock. Feeling your pulse. Do you like my cock, Doctor?"

He gasps.

"Doctor? Okay?"

"Very - okay," the Doctor manages to choke out.

Missy laughs, her prick moving inside him, and the Doctor growls in response. His own cock drips, precome falling onto the mattress. He can smell how aroused Missy is, hear it in the hitch of her breath, the way her fingers twitch on his hips. Agonizingly slowly, Missy draws her hips back, pulling her cock out of him. Presses in again, up against his prostate, and the Doctor groans into the pillows.

Missy pats him on the ass. "Good boy," she says, and pulls her hips back again, pushes into him. "Faster?"

"Yes," the Doctor pants, wishing he could touch his cock, knowing Missy won't let him. "Please - "

He doesn't have to say any more, because Missy seizes his sides and begins to thrust, laughs as she does so. She hits his prostate on each stroke, and it feels like dull, burning sparks inside him. Missy pants, using her grip to pull him onto her cock.

"You like it?" she asks. "You like my cock inside you? Tell me - "

"Yes, yes - " the Doctor moans as she hits his prostate dead on again. "Missy - "

"Thick and hard inside you?"

"Fuck - "

Missy moans, fucks him faster, her hands slipping on his sweaty sides. "I'm going to fuck you until we're both coming, my Doctor, until you're shouting my name - what is it? You want me to touch your cock?"

He nods, presses his face into the pillows, lets his world shrink down to the sparks low in his belly, the sensation of weight and pressure inside him, the smell of Missy, the sounds she's making, the sounds her cock makes as she slides in and out of him.

"Oh, give me five minutes of - fun," Missy pants. "Tell me how much you like my cock, then you can play with your own."

"I love it," the Doctor manages to say, pushing back against her. She pauses, buried inside him. "I missed having your cock inside me, I missed you fucking me."

Missy lets out a low, rough noise at this. Clenches his hips tightly, her nails digging in. "You love being fucked by your Mistress, don't you?"

"I do," the Doctor says, and shouts as Missy thrusts in and out of him sharply, one-two-three times. "Fucking - Missy, Mistress - "

Missy slides inside him again, slow and steady and his thighs are shaking from the position. She leans over him so her chest is pressed against his back, thrusts shallowly in and out so her breasts rub against his skin. She whimpers. The Doctor's hips buck forward as his cock dribbles precome and he swears.

Missy keeps jerking in and out of him, panting in his ear, and finally he feels her hand wrap around his cock, almost too tight. He groans with relief, thrusts into her hand. Missy pants in time with him, grunting as she fucks him, slicks her fingers up and down his cock.

"Come on Doctor," she grunts. "Come for me. You said you'd come on my cock. Tell me you love my cock."

"I love you - your cock," the Doctor pulls his head up from the pillows, bucks into Missy's hand again.

"Come for me," she says, and pushes deep inside him, and he yells. "Come on my cock - "

She thrusts in and out of him two more times and the Doctor shouts and comes so hard he sees stars, bucking wildly into Missy's hand as he spills all over the sheets. He swears, feels her still thrusting into him, groaning madly. He lies flat on the mattress as she keeps thrusting into him, her movements now erratic.

"I want to come, I want to come," she mutters, moving one of her hands to his shoulders, gripping the flesh there hard enough to bruise.

The Doctor grinds into the mattress as she keeps fucking him, catching his breath, still aroused beyond belief.

"Missy, Missy, Missy," he says, and sobs when she hits his prostate. "Missy - "

She keeps thrusting into him, making high noises in the back of her throat. He's amazed to realise he's almost hard again, on the edge again -

"I need to come," Missy says, and pulls out of him suddenly, leaving him feeling empty. "Fuck, I need to come."

Cock still strapped to her front, Missy swings off the Doctor and reaches down to the floor where she'd thrown one of the spare dildos she'd brought along. As the Doctor sits up, Missy throws herself onto her back, slides the dildo into her dripping cunt with a loud groan of relief. He looks at her, sprawled across the mattress. Crawls across the bed, legs shaking and leans over and kisses Missy as she fucks herself with the dildo. Reaches down and rubs her clit, swollen and hot against his fingers.

Missy groans against his lips, bites his mouth and he presses down on the nub of flesh. She shouts as she comes, her eyes rolling back into her head, shaking.

The Doctor rolls off her, lies on his back beside her as they both catch their breath. The room stinks of sex and sweat, and Missy makes a snuffling noise as she almost falls asleep, catches herself. She rolls over to face him, licks into his mouth and they kiss languidly for a few minutes. Then, the flower pollen makes another appearance.

"Again," she murmurs, taking his hand and guiding it between her legs where she's so slick and hot and open for him he can't say no.

He unbuckles the harness first and moves her cock out of the way, slicks his fingers into her cunt. Missy laughs against his mouth, sits up and moves so she's straddling him. Slides onto his cock.

"That was amazing, the way you fucked me," the Doctor says, grabbing her ass, and Missy laughs headily. "God. We need to do that again." 

"You like it? Missed my cock?"

"For the sixth time, yes - "

Missy grabs his head, shoves his face against her chest. He sucks on one of her nipples, laves his tongue along her breast. She lifts herself off his cock, drops back onto it. They both shout together.

"This is getting ridiculous. I hate the Mendreen," the Doctor mutters, and pushes Missy onto her back, arranges himself between her legs. Slides his cock into her cunt. "I really hate the Mendreen."

 

 

**The End**

It takes twenty-six hours, and then another ten hours of sleep. The Doctor finds Missy leaning against the bench in one of the kitchens eating breakfast, wearing nothing but his shirt buttoned up halfway. He tightens the cord on his dressing gown as she raises her bowl of cereal at him.

"Don't try sitting down," she reminds him, and he sighs, shakes his head. Straightens up. "Well you can, but would not recommend. Two out of ten."

Pours his own bowl of cereal, adds the milk.

"There's tea in the pot too," Missy says.

"Why are you wearing my clothes?"

"Traditional one-night stand attire," Missy says. "And you know. My skirt. Unwearable until the TARDIS is done washing it, after hour six."

The Doctor nods. Leans against the bench beside her. They eat in silence. Missy pours him a cup of tea.

"We could watch a film while we wait," he says eventually.

"We could do that. We should." She leans over, pecks him on the cheek. Leaves a spot of milk there, which she brushes away with her thumb. "Bless the Mendreen, hey?"

The Doctor shrugs. "They're not so bad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	5. All I Ask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I thought I was a vessel for your bad feelings and desires. Look, but don't touch. That kind of thing."
> 
> "Isn't that what friendship is?"

"All I ask. All I ask. All I ever ask - "

The Doctor gives Missy a pointed look. She nods.

"All I ever ask," she says, slamming her palm down flat on the bartop. "All I _ask_ \- "

"All you ever ask - " the Doctor says.

"All I _ever ask_ \- "

"All _I_ ask is that you both buy drinks, or get out," says the bartender. She stops between them, rests her hands on the taps. Stares them down. "So?"

The bar bustles around them. The Doctor glances about the place, the patrons playing pool, leaning over tables and chatting, eating pub food. A small rock trio, who promise to be not terrible, perhaps even adequate, are setting up in the corner.

The bartender raises her thinly-plucked eyebrows.

"I'll have a beer," Missy says. "He'll have a beer. Give us beers. Pale ales."

"Pale ales," says the bartender, and she pours them two pint glasses.

"Booth," the Doctor says, pointing, and Missy grabs the beers. He hurries across the room and slides into the dark leather seat. Takes his beer off Missy when she arrives, walking slowly and focusing on not spilling. "Thanks."

Missy slides into the booth opposite him. Drinks deeply.

"Anyway," says the Doctor.

"Anyway. All I ever ask is that my minions show up on time. Plans ride on this amazing and brand new concept, of being on time. And they _knew_ I was a Time Lady. Is it so much to ask?"

"No, no Missy, it's not too much to ask. Not that I'm complaining."

"At least call. Damn, we should get chips or something."

"Kitchen's closed. There's an Indian place down the street," says the Doctor. "Hey. Well, at least it meant your plan failed before it could even get off the ground. I've had a rather relaxing Thursday. First relaxing Thursday in three years, no thanks to you."

"Zanninan ships can travel at the speed of light," Missy says, as the Doctor drinks. "Pinpoint accuracy to the quantum millisecond. How can they be late?"

"Naan bread," says the Doctor thoughtfully.

Missy fixes him with a glare. He shrugs.

"Don't they measure their approach radius off the Southern Hemisphere because of the mountains in Australia?"

Missy counts on her fingers. "…yes."

"Wonder what's up with that then," the Doctor says. "Those mountains haven't changed in centuries."

They sit quietly and drink. Missy examines a newspaper someone left behind on the chair. She flips through to the comics. The Doctor reaches into his pocket and finds his phone, sees a text from Bill asking what he's up to.

'Nothing much,' he types. 'Seeing an old friend for dinner.'

She sends him back the chocolate ice-cream emoji. The Doctor frowns at the screen for a moment, puts his phone back in his pocket. Points at Missy, who nods. He gets up and comes back with two more beers.

"I mean," says Missy. "Is it really. So much to ask, that beings show up on time? They have quantum-linked clocks! This was a great plan. The sky was going to turn bright pink, all over. It would have rained flecks of steel. All shiny and glossy and exciting."

"Great plan. Nothing like ruling over a planet suffocated under a sheen of metal," says the Doctor. "It'd be like somewhere quite snowy, but with more dead things."

"I don't like the snow," says Missy. "Makes my fingers go blue. Not my colour, not this time. Now."

"You seem relaxed at least. Maybe resurrect the plan next Thursday, not tomorrow. That way, you can have the night off. We could go to the movies."

Missy looks at him.

"You want to go to the movies?"

"We could go to the movies," says the Doctor defensively.

"Do you want to see something in particular? In a theatre, with suspiciously sticky floors and presumably children squawking in the background, watching a film you can most certainly access from your private time machine where suspiciously sticky floors are dealt with at a moments notice and usually your own doing?" Missy takes a deep breath.

The Doctor rests his chin in his hands, raises his eyebrows at her. "Well, no."

"Then why would we go to the movies?"

The Doctor checks his phone again. Missy motions at him to read it aloud.

"'Which friend,'" he says. "I told her I was at dinner."

"You told her you were with your friend," says Missy, in a strange tone, and finishes her drink. Burps. "I'm touched. I thought I was a vessel for your bad feelings and desires. Look, but don't touch. That kind of thing."

"Isn't that what friendship is?"

"I'm getting the next round."

Missy gets up.

"'Friend from way back, no need to worry,'" the Doctor mumbles as he types, replying to Bill.

"That'll just make her worry more," says Missy, plunking the beers in front of him. "You know. You say, don't worry, and it just spirals like a noxious weed. When the true noxious weed all along - " she sees his look. "Who is this friend? New pet?"

"New human. Bill. You don't know Bill. You haven't met Bill. You'd like Bill."

"I won't like Bill."

The Doctor thinks. "You're never meeting Bill."

"All your humans worry about you," says Missy. "Don't seem to realise you're, you know, a grown-Time Lord. TARDIS license, shooting license - "

"I haven't touched a gun in - oh, a decade." The Doctor pauses. "That's less impressive than I was hoping for."

"Lion tamer license. Train driver license..."

Missy starts riffling through the paper again, finds the crossword. Pulls out a pen.

"How did you know I got my train license?" the Doctor asks.

"Wild stab in the dark. You mentioned you wanted to be a conductor when we were younger. One assumes you must have gotten - 1970s racing driver, survived crash and burning in the Green Death, five letters - "

"Lauda - "

"Yes, and one assumes you must have gotten it eventually. You've had a few spare decades," says Missy. She finishes the crossword quickly, the Doctor occasionally interjecting with his own answers. "Don't worry, I'm not doing the sudoku after."

Missy folds the paper, puts it to one side. The Doctor gets another message from Bill - just the cactus emoji, then the chocolate ice-cream emoji one again. He holds the phone up so Missy can see the screen.

"You're a prickly piece of sh - " Missy begins, and gives up when the Doctor frowns, confused. "They just don't seem to realise you're a Time Lord. Do they know we're not born with these titles? They do take work. Even that degree you have in cheese-making."

"I don't like to go into it," says the Doctor. "But they really should assume. There's - it's like how you have kings and ladies and lords and ministers and some do a lot, and others do very little. You know - "

"I do know, I was on Gallifrey too."

Missy props her chin in her hands, rests her elbows on the table. Blinks across at him. Puffs out her cheeks.

"Thank you," the Doctor says. "For your contribution. What degrees do _you_ have, then? Apart from the Time Lady one. We graduated together."

"You really want a list? It's a long list. I did a beer-making course once, in Germany somewhen. That was fun."

The Doctor folds his hands. Looks at his fingers. Looks up, stirred when a group of students stumble past their table and brush up against him on their way out the door. One trips over, bringing half the group down with her. Missy grins, watching them try and sort themselves out.

"Are we friends, Missy?" the Doctor asks.

Missy blows out her cheeks again. "I like to think we are, best friends. Besties."

"Best enemies, more like."

Missy still has her cheeks puffed out. She rolls her eyes.

"We don't do the things friends do," the Doctor says. "I'm being philosophical. I do that now, ruminate on the bootstrap paradox and observance theory. And I play the guitar."

"You ruminate on _bootstraps_?" Missy asks. "I'm sorry, you're a Time Lord, you just confirmed that. We sort bootstraps at age ten, Doctor. Everyone knows it's just - "

"I don't want to talk about bootstraps theory," says the Doctor. "Are we friends? Do we do what friends do?"

"We have a friendship, oh, I don't know." Missy casts her gaze about the room. "A friendship older than human civilisation and infinitely more complex," she says. "And less so. We get on, more or less."

"The only reason," and the Doctor jabs his fingers on the tabletop. "We're in this bar together talking, is because the aliens you paid off to help with your invasion were three minutes late, and missed the planet entirely."

"It's a small planet," says Missy.

"Don't defend the Zanninans, Missy."

"I mean, really though. All I ask - "

"Stop. But we don't text - "

"Would you like me to text?" Missy asks. "Have you heard of Snapchat?"

"No," says the Doctor. "Is that the one with the swiping?"

Missy snorts. "It's this app humans get in about twenty years, on their smartphones, and they use it to take and send photos that last up to ten seconds. Or videos. Messages, you know."

"I don't get why you'd want a photo that only lasts ten seconds." The Doctor says. "Humans ached for a form of media that could record their loved ones for long periods of time. Why would they do that?"

"Or we could get Words With Friends. It's like Scrabble, but on your phone."

"Do you want to play Scrabble?"

"Nah," Missy shakes her head. "We hang, occasionally. We can always pick up where we left off. Granted, usually where we left off is you thinking I'm dead - "

"That's changed. Last time you faked your death, with the Cyberman cannon timed with the teleport - knew that was fake, right away." The Doctor drinks deeply. "We should have gotten chips. Shame."

"You know what I mean though. We're unconventional," says Missy. "We've always been unconventional. You ran away from the Academy when you were barely nine, and I was exiled from Gallifrey for - well, you were there."

The Doctor takes another drink. Missy drinks too, looks into her glass.

"We could write more," she says. "I mean, you tracked me down, this time. And the time before that, after the Cybermen but before Skaro."

"Yes, but you stalked me up and down my timeline," the Doctor says. "About even there, Missy."

"Of course. We could also be friends with benefits."

Missy looks up from her drink. The Doctor stares at her.

"Are we thinking of the same kind of benefits?" he says slowly, and she nods. "Well, we've been doing that for years," the Doctor says. "I figured that was more part of the unconventional. And it's not even that unheard of, on Gallifrey. That was how your second cousin and my second cousin ended up getting married, remember?"

"I remember," says Missy grimly. "What a wedding. That ceremony went for hours. Remember how we filled in the time before the second round of contract-signing witnessing?"

"I remember," says the Doctor, and nods, chuckles. "Twice. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Take a wild guess."

"I know that face," says the Doctor. "Yours or mine?"

"Yours is closer."

 

 

* * *

 

An impressive chunk of hours later, the Doctor sits up so he's between Missy's legs properly, leaning against her chest. She butts her forehead against the back of his head, and he shifts again, sitting against the headboard next to her. She flops her left leg over his right one. The Doctor knocks their feet together.

"What year were you planning on invading?"

"2016," Missy says. "No real reason, it just seemed right. Mid-August."

She scratches at the red marks on her stomach. Cooling down, the Doctor tugs the blankets up around their waists. Missy grabs his forearm, brings his hand to her mouth and kisses his palm. His skin tingles. She lets him go.

"Mid August 2016," the Doctor says. "Oh, well there's your problem."

"What's my problem?"

The Doctor slides down so he can rest his head on Missy's shoulder. "In July 2016 Australian scientists recalibrate Australia's latitude and longitude because the whole country shifted one and a half metres over the preceding twenty years."

"Huh." Missy stares at the bedroom wall. Absently tips her head, kisses his temple. Goes back to staring at the wall. "That's - sensible. Still. It's not a lot to ask, is it? Considering those aliens were literally millennia ahead of human technology?"

"Naan bread," says the Doctor again.

"I could eat," Missy says.

"Sounds like a plan. At least we'll both be on time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the news that Australia's latitude and longitude are out by over 1.5 metres and scientists need to recalculate them. Also, my friends were late coming to get me one night. But mostly that news story.


	6. something old, something new.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> something borrowed, something blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing warm ups for something else, but it's just sort of...on my desktop so I'm posting it here. Could be seen as connected to Nazi Occupied France but hey.

These are the parts she loves, she loves, all the whole moments in the ruins, the aftermaths, the ruins of her plans and victories and failures. The sum of their parts. Where he stands in front of her, or sometimes he kneels. They meet eyes. Their gazes lock.

Sometimes there's banter, bluster, like they're playing poker (with planets and billions of lives) and it's genuine, two old friends stepping out the same dance. Sometimes there's banter that disguises wounds that are still tender. Sometimes it's bare and open, dripping holes in flesh, oozing pus and blood and they just won't heal - it goes -

Oh, this is an old dance.

The Doctor plays disgust and believes it, like he actually would have pulled the trigger in the graveyard, like he didn't let her run on Skaro, like he didn't tell the Time Lords about her continued survival.

He plays disgust and wears it well, because he's probably more disgusted at himself than anything. She escapes, and it's all under her own steam again, and the Doctor should have no idea where she has fled to.

 

* * *

 

Missy waits, eating a blue bubble-gum ice-cream outside some ancient museum, sitting at the bottom of the wide granite steps. She hears the TARDIS - the Doctor's TARDIS - materialising around the corner. She finishes the cone, licks her fingers, wipes her hands on her handkerchief. Stands as the Doctor approaches.

He doesn't look her in the eye. Are these times more or less honest?

Hands in pockets, they enter the museum. Play that old Time Lord game of pointing and laughing at the mistakes. Then, the Doctor stops her.

"It's almost like bullying," the Doctor says. "Making fun of their wrong assumptions, their guesses. They can't check at this point. That said. Pudding brains. Planet of them."

These are the parts she has more trouble with, where they step outside their binary and outside of expectations, and they find themselves in front of a painting of a group of caravans, the colours rich and thick like the brushstrokes. The canvas beneath is cheap. The sky is painted, almost green. It's not age, it's actually tinted green.

"That's how I see Earth's sky," Missy says. "Finally, someone gets it right."

"They think he was French," says the Doctor, reading the description plaque next to it.

"Wasn't he?"

"No, no. He was from the Netherlands."

They stand at the painting. Missy tilts her head.

"I had estates," says Missy, because she can't think of anything else. "Look at us now."

The Doctor nods, keeps looking at the painting. "You should probably come up with a new topic. You'll get no sympathy from me."

"Let's go somewhere else."

"You picked this place."

"I made a mistake, then. Dummy."

The Doctor almost absently takes her hand, his fingers weaving through her own. Like she's a human, or a spouse, or a child. She doesn't know what's more insulting. They walk outside in-step, find the square has filled up in the warm dusk. There's a three-piece band playing something folksy, and a few couples and groups are dancing around them.

The Doctor and the Mistress reach the bottom of the steps. He's still holding her hand, looking over at the dancers. She doesn't know if she likes this.

"What's changed? What's new?" Missy asks finally. "Marriage, or war, or your friends?"

"Dance with me," the Doctor says instead.

Missy pulls a face. The Doctor takes her waist and moves them out into the group of dancing people. They join the circle and try to catch up with the steps.

"So what's changed?" she asks, after a few minutes.

"I've given up trying to fix you," the Doctor admits. He squeezes her side. "I told you to run, and you ran. It's not my job to chase you."

There's another pause as they step out again. Missy rests her right hand on his left shoulder, the Doctor loops his arm around her waist. They spin, come back together. Missy holds her hands on his shoulders when he puts his own on her hips.

"Is that why you kissed me?" asks Missy.

"Yes," he replies. "Why did you kiss me?"

A jump to the left. A step back to the right.

"I was rather excited to see you. And a little bit turned on by the silver fox aesthetic you've brought back. It's like that last time you had grey hair."

The Doctor is trying not to smile.

"You should smile," says Missy. "I like your smile this time around. There's no ego in it. There's only a bit of pity."

He stops smiling, looks serious. Missy tickles the back of his neck and tugs lightly on his hair.

"I didn't like you kissing me then."

"Didn't stop you smooching me back. There was suction. There was a return one in the graveyard too. You thanked me and you kissed me," Missy pauses. "You thanked me and you kissed me in front of everyone. Why?"

"Because I've given up on trying to fix you," says the Doctor. "There'll be glimpses of how good you could be. I'm choosing to take them as one-offs. A parallel universe peeking through."

She can't take his wonderful brushes with darkness the same way.

They stop as the band counts into a new song. The new tune is bouncy, starts with the Doctor lifting her around the waist as she jumps. They step out, in. He twirls her.

"So because you're my friend," says Missy. "You've given up on me."

"I'm not responsible for your actions. Not all of them, anyway." The Doctor stumbles. Missy catches him, keeps leading. "I owe myself that much. It's liberating."

"In that case," says Missy. "I owe you dinner. You can get the drinks."

It's a quick box step. The Doctor steps to the left, Missy goes right, and they switch partners for a moment, swap back.

"I may need to borrow some cash though. I'll pay you back," says Missy, and the Doctor smiles, and it's beautiful.

 

* * *

 

 

It feels like a special occasion. They get dinner in a private room at a restaurant and later sit on the floor in his TARDIS playing cards. He's won the fifth round when she distracts him.

"These are the parts I love," Missy says, taking and holding his hands in front of her face. She kisses his palms. "And these." She squeezes his fingers. "And this part." His bony wrists, poking out from his stiff white cuffs. "And this - "

The Doctor leans across, grabs her hips. He pulls her into his lap and she wraps her legs around his waist, her skirt rucked up between them. He grips her thighs, holds her against him, presses his face into her neck. Rubs circles on her back, his hands warm even through her clothes.

"And this," says Missy, kissing his temple.

The Doctor laughs, his breath warm against her neck. "You're being ridiculous. Act more like you."

"You owe yourself this much," says Missy. "You really wanted to see me?"

"At the end of the day, Missy. You're my oldest friend, and I'd like to keep it that way. I'll happily see you any time, preferably with no tissue compression eliminations, no exterminations and no invasions."

"Therein lies the rub." Missy wriggles out of his lap, sits back on the carpet opposite him. "Damn, I spilt my tea."

She picks up the cup and saucer, puts it up on the table. Starts shuffling the cards again. The Doctor watches her hands carefully. Puts one hand on her wrist and stops her. He leans over and kisses her softly on the lips. Tilts his head, brushes his nose along her cheek.

"And this," the Doctor mumbles. He draws back slightly and studies her face. "Are you blushing?"

"N - no," says Missy. She keeps shuffling. "You're blushing."

"I like these days," the Doctor says, and she smiles crookedly at him. He sits back properly and crosses his legs. "What are we playing now?"

"Something old," she says, and deals him in.


	7. very, very interesting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr user itsnyaaabetch: "my girlfriend (who is asleep) just rolled over, wrapped her arms around me and very lovingly whispered "i want to murder you." Meloartist illustrated this text post with a cute-as Twissy pic. This is the fanfiction based off the image based off the text post.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hammered out while watching a World War II documentary so if it randomly says, "Japan's unwillingness to surrender" in the middle of the text, that's why. Unbetaed.

It was warm and soft and dark, and the Doctor thoroughly enjoys not having been murdered that day. No one had died that day, in the attack. He'd just showered and his hair was feeling pleasingly fluffy. The TARDIS had washed the linen, so that was wonderfully pressed and cool. It smelt like fabric softener and cotton and something vaguely flowery. The sheets were smooth against his bare legs.

He rolls over onto his stomach, slides his arms under his freshly-plumped pillow. In the ensuite, Missy turns off her hairdryer and snaps off the light. She emerges, hair loose and tumbling over her shoulders, wearing one of his big t-shirts and nothing else, which is -

"Interesting. Very interesting," says Missy, sliding in on his right, tugging the blankets up around her middle. "What are you reading right now?"

"You can see the bedside table from here."

Missy props herself up on her elbow and leans over him, smelling all like perfume and soap and the tang of metal, her hair trailing over his face. She grabs the book off the stack on the table.

"Ah, just some light bedtime reading. Twat."

"You asked," the Doctor says.

She flips through the pages, tutting.

"No, not twat," says Missy. "Saint Hermit. The Ramayana. That said, you going to give me some constant care and chief delight?"

The Doctor snatches the book off her. "These sheets were just washed."

He puts the book back on the table, reaches over to snap the light off. Missy catches his wrist. Twists his hand, kisses the back of it, then his palm. The Doctor brushes his thumb along her cheekbone.

"Read to me," Missy says, lying back down.

"I've got something lighter," says the Doctor, taking the next book off the stack. He opens it, clears his throat. " _Once, when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book, called True Stories from Nature, about the primeval forest. It was a picture of a boa constrictor in the act of swallowing an animal. Here is a copy of the drawing._ " He shows it to Missy, who takes a theatrical interest in the coloured sketch. " _In the book it said_ …"

They read through to the second chapter, and Missy kisses him on the temple and smooths his hair back. The Doctor puts the book back on the table, snaps the light out. There's a rustle as Missy turns onto her side.

"Night-night," she says. "Sleep tight."

"Thanks for not destroying the planet today," the Doctor says.

"Not for lack of trying," she says sleepily.

The Doctor leans over and kisses her on the cheek. Missy hums happily. He lies back and closes his eyes. Opens them a few minutes later, staring at the ceiling, oddly soothed by the sound of Missy breathing peacefully two feet away from him. The Doctor wakes again, an indeterminate amount of time later, curled on his side with his arm thrown around Missy's middle. Her hair tickles his nose.

He slowly extracts himself, moves onto his back again. Stretches out, enjoying the cool cleanness of the bedsheets. Closes his eyes, opens them.

Tries not to, but finds himself entertaining the concept of Missy - not attempting to destroy Earth, take over various galaxies. Imagines more nights of peace. She's certainly doing better than her previous incarnation, but it's a step down in the sanity department from what he privately thinks of as the classic Master model. _That_ was a version of the Master who appreciated leisure time.

As if on cue, Missy sighs in her sleep, rolls over. Slides one arm around his ribcage, the other up below his neck and pillow. She holds him close, still smelling like soap and flowers. The Doctor rubs her arm, breathes in the smell of her hair. Feels himself relaxing -

"I want to murder you," Missy whispers lovingly, and the Doctor gives up on sleeping for the rest of the night.


	8. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A coda to something that turned out not to need a coda. So here is the coda without the precursor of the coda. I call it, Coda.

Someone kisses him awake, humming noisily as she does. The Doctor opens his eyes. Closes them. The room is too damn bright, the walls an ugly sunshiny yellow.

"I'm glad you're not dead," says Missy. "Shit fucking job you did on keeping Gallifrey dead though."

"I have a hangover and three quarters," says the Doctor, ignoring her. "What was that bar? Where are we? When are we?"

"They like me there. People rarely like me."

"They didn't like me."

Missy leans over, kisses him again. Licks his earlobe, and the Doctor groans in disgust, rolls away and keeps his eyes shut. He pulls the pillow over his head.

"I love you," says Missy, and the Doctor looks at her, squinting, concerned. "I really do. Remember that." Her face, for one second, is open, truthful. Earnest. Then, it shutters again.

"Are you dying?" the Doctor asks finally. "Again? No? Where are we?"

"Deeson," says Missy. "You know. Planet of the Marching Bands. We really didn't plan ahead. Just so you know." She straddles him, forces him onto his back. Kisses him again.

"I don't want to - " says the Doctor. He cups her face, runs his fingers through her hair. "I like it when one of us has longer hair." He tugs on it lightly.

"You always do," she says. "Well, up." Missy climbs awkwardly out of bed, shakes herself. "Ugh. I hate sleeping in my clothes." She slips out of her jacket, throws it on the floor. The Doctor sits up and watches her, oddly, expects the jacket to make a loud noise. Missy catches his look as she unclips her collar, removes the brooch.

"Do you remember giving me this?" she asks. She tosses it over, and he catches it deftly. "You did. Didn't you?"

"I made it myself, if that's what you mean," the Doctor says. "I wanted to surprise you, the day your daughter went off to the Academy as a Scholar."

"Hm. Well. I'm having a shower."

The Doctor examines the brooch, runs his fingers over the face. It's rather worn. He remembers something vaguely, in muted colours and sounds. Missy shuts the door to the bathroom and he hears the water start up. The Doctor throws the blankets off, notes with relief he's still wearing his trousers, knocks on the door, the wood solid under his knuckles.

"Naked," Missy calls, and he opens it.

Missy pokes her head out from inside the shower cubicle, which is made from frosted glass and hides everything interesting. Well, everything that would be interesting, if he was consistently interested. Which he usually isn't, but today. He's interested.

"I'm sorry," he says, and Missy raises her eyebrows. Her hair is wet, plastered to her forehead. "I'm sorry your daughter died, when I destroyed Gallifrey."

"I - " Missy begins. "Is now really - "

"Yes, I'm saying this now."

Missy pushes her hair off her forehead. Stares at him, like she's thinking. Finally,

"I am currently naked," Missy deadpans. "Get in, or get out."

"I - "

One look from Missy, and he pulls his t-shirt over his head. Unbuttons his trousers and pulls them off along with his underwear. Kicks his clothes into the corner by the bath and steps in the steamy cubicle with her.

Missy is shampooing her hair, and she nods at him as he steps under the spray.

"Now," says Missy, and puts her wet hands in his hair, styles it into a mowhawk. "Never wear it like that. What's going on with you?"

"I should apologise. For your daughter, at least," the Doctor says, as Missy manipulates his hair into spikes. "Your wife."

"I hadn't spoken with either in half a millennium," says Missy. "And that was before the war."

"You are so much younger than me, now," says the Doctor, and Missy pulls a face. She tips his head back under the water until his hair is slicked back. The water is far too hot, and he fumbles for the cold tap. "But this is my apology."

"And what has brought this on?"

"You loved your daughter, once," he says. "That reminded me."

Missy crinkles her nose. She still holds onto his head, and drags him down so he kisses her, the water running over their faces. The Doctor pulls away, makes Missy look at him. She meets his gaze steadily.

"I've never blamed you for destroying Gallifrey. I've done nothing but congratulate you, time and again. One of the top ten most arousing things you've done. It's up there with that Valeyard incarnation of yourself. Am now, what one would call, a fan of that."

The Doctor gives up. Missy grins, blinks away water. He finds his hands resting on her hips.

"This is more like it," she says, and kisses him again. "Still hungover?"

"Think I'm still drunk, if I'm honest."


End file.
